Write It Down!

WHEN I clean out my desk drawers I come across a lot of old lists. It takes me twice as long to straighten drawers as it does most persons, for I have to stop and read these lists and wonder what I meant by certain notes — and to consider if I’ve done the things I should have done.

My husband knows that I make notes on everything and he’s always giving me little notebooks he’s gotten as advertisements. I never turn one down — which always amuses him considerably. He doesn’t see how it’s possible to use all the pads I collect. I have cut down on my notations since the time he caught me writing down the number of kilowatt hours from our electric bill. I can’t think why I did that. Possibly I had some idea of comparing the figures month by month. I tried to explain that the book wasn’t for kilowatt hours alone, but for all household bills. I gave the whole thing up.

Here is a list I found that requires a little study. I wouldn’t dare destroy any notes without checking. The first item is Old Farmers’ Almanac. H-m-m, let’s see. Oh, yes, I meant to order a copy. I never did. Skipper Willis told me I should by all means. Skipper Willis lives in Huntsville, Alabama, and he calls himself one of the Agrarians. That must have been about the time I was ready to go over to the Agrarians. Skipper struck me all of a heap when he said he wouldn’t go so far as to say we ought to plough up all the paved highways. But he would say the Southern man had been affected by Yankee commercialism. I thought the Skipper was all mind, like Mrs. Leo Hunter, and when he told me to get the Old Farmers’ Almanac I couldn’t wait to make a note of it. And I’m still carrying it forward, like an old bill.

Spots on floor. That’s nothing new. That item spends its time on my lists. My husband harps on spots on the floor. He says: ‘ I was just waiting to see if you’d notice that spot. It’s been on the living-room floor for two weeks and you haven’t done anything about it. You never notice anything.’ The way he says ‘that spot’ makes it sound like nothing less than the blood of Banquo. And it’s hardly fair to say I don’t notice them. I get blue sometimes wondering how they got there. I always intend to remove them immediately, but something more interesting comes up. Then he tells me and I write it down on one of my pads.

Pay Nat 30¢. Did I? I can’t remember. Better make a note to ask her. I’ve a horror of dying suddenly and leaving debts — or borrowed books. Whenever I take a trip I pin a note on the bed lamp in my room, like: ‘ Meaning of Culture belongs to Art Bemis. Leacock’s Life of Dickens to Sophie Hard. Poe’s Essay on Composition to Mrs. Week. I never did read The Meaning of Culture. I wonder if it’s worth while to make a memo to borrow it again?

A’s socks. Have I hidden some away that needed darning? No, it couldn’t be that. I’m as punctual as a clock about mending, if nothing else. Must refer to those Resilko socks that didn’t fit. That’s right. I’m safe, then. I ought to remember, for I had a terrible time catching the Resilko man. Had to make three trips to his office and finally left a note in his door telling him to call. Nice boy. Hope he gets ahead in the world and doesn’t need to rely on lists.

Market list. Bacon, prunes, liver, spinach — that’s the story of my life. I’m going to stop trying to buy things that are good for people. Isn’t that the height of romance? Bacon, prunes, liver, spinach! Why not oranges, mangoes, papayas, guavas? Smoked turkey, Smithfield ham, golden pheasant. Caviar, hollandaise, sailfish. Custard apples, white lilies, air plants, ferns, alligators. H-m-m, the Loxahatehie. Better make a note to ask Gertrude if we can have her Florida place again.

Tapestry piece. Was I going to make one? Surely my folly doesn’t extend that far. Not after it took me two years to do the needlepoint for a very small footstool. Was it something I was to buy for that old chair ? No, I decided on a slip-cover. Something to hang over the hole in the living-room wall? Maybe it’ll come to me. I’ll think of it tonight when I’m trying to go to sleep — if I remember to think at all instead of reading myself into unconsciousness.

Don’t forget ex. Ex? Well, that’s got me. If my husband didn’t read my notes and get such a big laugh out of them I could spell words out and not resort to these cabalistic signs. Excalibur, ex cathedra, excerpt, excursion. Excursion? Where? No one in his right mind would ever use a word like excursion. Excuse? No, I just say I can’t go and that’s all. Maybe the dictionary’ll help. Execute, exemplary, exercise. That’s it. Exercises. You lie on the floor and raise yourself up slowly without pushing. I was going to do that twenty times a day after I found Betty did and took two inches off her waistline. Better write that down again. I’ll say Twenty times daily and then I’ll know what I mean.

H-do. See picture. All I can think of is howdy-do, which doesn’t make a great deal of sense. What picture? Well, it doesn’t matter. I should like to know what picture I wanted to see, though. But what connection could a picture have with this mysterious h-do ? I might work it out if it were just See picture. A memory course is what I need. A person ought to rely more on his brain and less on notes. I could write it down on a new list. But I shan’t be any smarter a week from now. I’ll have to give it up. I’m due at the beauty parlor right now. Wonder if I might let May try my hair a new way? I’m sick and tired of the same old hair-do!

HARRIET CULP